Broadway Bound
by GriefofDawn
Summary: Hermione had always thought herself immune to obsession so it came as a shock when she found herself making up excuses to meet a certain muggle Broadway actress.
1. Obsession

**Disclaimer: **This is a derivative work using characters and intellectual property belonging to Ryan Murphy/Fox (Glee), J.K. Rowling, and her publishers and probably others.  
><strong>WhenSpoilers: **Post Deathly Hallows/EWE (Epilogue? What Epilogue!) and approx. a decade Post End-of-Glee (In an AU Way yet to be determined)  
><strong>CharactersPairings: **Santana/Brittany, Rachel Berry, Hermione Granger. Quinn/f  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Here there be subtext, implied adult situations, magic, and multiple actual and potential relationships between members of the same sex. There might even be implied non-het sex. If any of that offends you... you might want to skip this story and read something else.  
><strong>Posting Frequency:<strong> Not very often.  
><strong>Note:<strong> [10/20/2013] Not sure why it took so long to notice but the **last **sentence was incomplete - fixed.  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>2,440

* * *

><p><em>The first time Hermione saw her perform was at the Piccadilly theatre in the West End. An American touring company was there for a month, the last stop on a world tour, before heading home.<em>

* * *

><p>The noise and size of the crowd waiting in the theatre lobby was a shock, after a month spent buried in the chilly silence of the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. Everyone was packed too closely together for her to reach her wand to use her favorite muffling charm, and though she'd mastered several wandless magic charms over the years that wasn't one of them.<p>

Her ticket clutched tightly in her hand, buried in a pocket of her favorite muggle jacket, Hermione moved forward through the crowd. From the look of the packed lobby, she'd been lucky to get it, thanks to her parents. A member of the cast had needed an emergency filling and they'd somehow ended up at her parent's dental practice in Milton Keynes. In appreciation for being seen immediately, they'd offered her parents tickets to the show.

They'd been unable to attend, because of a prior engagement. But having been subjected to her rant about her History of Muggle Law seminar and the paper she was expected write when they'd gone to dinner with her several weeks before, they'd gotten Hermione a ticket for opening night.

Nervously looking through the playbill, Hermione glanced around the theater. She wasn't completely unfamiliar with Muggle entertainment. She had lived as one for the first eleven years of her life after all, and spent large parts of her summer and Christmas breaks with her parents her first few years at Hogwarts. But going down to London to watch musical theater was something her parents usually did while she was away at school.

Half the audience was wearing a military uniform of some sort or another. Looking through the playbill she was surprised to see that this was the theater company's final stop on an international tour sponsored by some American Muggle military support group she wasn't familiar with.

Mentally taking notes, Hermione sat back and tried not to let the music envelope her. How the Muggle audience reacted to the depiction of witches in the musical was an important part of the essay she planned to write.

* * *

><p>Obsession wasn't a healthy thing. But it took Harry and Ron to get her to acknowledge that going to see a play in America, because of some Muggle actress she'd never spoken to, and had seen twice in a musical in London, verged on crazy.<p>

She decided that it probably wasn't a good idea to tell them that she'd recorded the performance the second time, using a magical camera she'd borrowed from Luna Lovegood, and had actually watched the performance more than a dozen times, and could recite lines along with the characters.

* * *

><p>Hermione approached her trip to NY with her usual thoroughness. She researched Muggle theater, specifically all of the variations she expected to find on Broadway. She researched the theater company. She read the original novel the musical was based on. And she put together as thorough a biography of the actors as possible. It was surprising how much one could find out about a person through the Muggle Internet.<p>

* * *

><p>Rachel was glad to be back in New York. It'd been an extremely rewarding year on tour. But long. Her fathers had flown out to Tokyo when the company had stopped there for a month, midway though the tour, and she'd had dinner in Berlin with Kurt and his current boyfriend but otherwise the only people she'd personally interacted with the whole year had been the rest of the company and the appreciative audiences.<p>

Laying in bed, she ran through everything she needed to accomplish now that she was home. Brittany and Santana were being very generous in giving her a place to stay until she could find an apartment and get her possessions out of storage but she couldn't take up their guest room for too long, even if Santana was now acting as her manager slash lawyer after her last manager behaved so unprofessionally.

She had enough money saved up so she wasn't days away from starving, unlike when she'd first hit the streets of NY after dropping out of Juilliard, and had auditioned for every play she could find. She could be a little more discriminating in picking roles. First she would see if Santana had any leads for her, though she hadn't mentioned anything the night before.

* * *

><p>"Ms. Lopez, there's a call for you on line 7," the office receptionist, a cute little blonde just out of Barnard, said. Santana smirked to herself, replaying in her head Kurt's comment, that she liked to surround herself with blondes to make herself stand out, the last time he was in town.<p>

"Thanks," Santana said, adding an extra touch of breathiness to her voice before switching to the other line. "Santana Lopez, how may I help you?" she said, back to her normal business voice, sure that if anyone from high school heard her being this polite they would be laughing their asses off once they got over the shock.

"Miss Lopez, my name is Hermione Granger," a firm female voice with a British accent said. "I'm writing an article for the Quibbler, about views on witches in popular culture."

"I'm not sure how I can help you," Santana said, puzzled, "Miss Granger."

"Hermione," the voice said.

"Got it," Santana said, randomly poking her notepad, idly wondering what Brit would sound like with a British accent, and if she would be up for a little role playing when she got back.

"You represent Rachel Berry? Correct?" the woman asked.

"Yes," Santana said.

"I was able to see her last month, at the Piccadilly theatre," Hermione said. "An impressive performance."

"Not going to argue," Santana said, resisting the urge to elaborate. Even on a bad day, Berry was good, though Santana would never admit it to her. Her ego was big enough already, after getting nominated for that Emmy for her walk-on in one of those CSI shows, even if she hadn't won.

"Of course," the woman said. "I'll be in New York next month, and I was hoping to be able to interview her for my article?"

"What magazine was that again?" Santana asked, putting to use the pen she'd been twirling in her fingers for the last five minutes.

"The Quibbler," Hermione told her. "We're small but have a dedicated audience in Britain."

"Okay," Santana said. "Give me a shout when you're in town and I'll arrange an interview." She didn't expect Berry to object to talking to the press.

"Thank you," Hermione said, before hanging up.

Santana put down the phone. Managing Berry's career wasn't a lucrative activity, yet. And certainly not something she'd planned. But the senior partners had agreed to her pursuing it as an experiment after the budding star had come to her, after firing her first manager, looking for advice from someone who wouldn't sugar coat things and would look after Berry's best interests even when she didn't agree with them.

Brittany, displaying the sharp mind that few outside of their small circle knew existed, had been so impressed with how happy the half-pint diva was with Santana's help that she'd asked for a similar deal, even though Santana had offered to help her for free. Somehow she'd then found herself involved in the careers of Quinn Fabray and Kurt Hummel, though mainly for legal advice and not as hands-on as she was with Brittany and Berry.

Something about the conversation was setting off alarms. Not in a 'Danger, Will Schuester' kind of way, but in a something she heard in church kind of way. There was a connection there somewhere. And she would find it.

* * *

><p>It was her own fault, she knew that, listening to Berry chatter away like a demented squirrel about her plans for apartment hunting. With Brittany on tour with one of those Disney pop-brats for the summer, Santana couldn't just lock herself in her bedroom until the noise stopped. She was going to have to interact with Berry on a personal level without her Brit-buffer. For days, if not weeks.<p>

It wasn't that she hated Berry, she wouldn't be camped out in their spare again if she did, but her high volume, filterless word vomit could be exhausting, especially after a year of being Berry free.

She hadn't actually told her about the possible interview yet. She was saving that to toss at Berry on her way out the door in the morning, like a grenade. And then, it hit her, just as Berry started ranting about the auditions she'd managed to wrangle her spots in, less than a week after getting back from her tour.

The last time she's visited her grandmother, she'd given Brittany a magazine to read. Some wizarding thing her abuela subscribed to. Santana held up her hand. "Just hold that thought, shorty."

"But Santana! They wanted me to play a lesbian Elphaba, and while I can play any part, and I just spent a year playing Elphaba on tour, the only lesbians I really know in the city are you and Brittany, at least enough to model this role on, but you aren't really typical lesbians. And that other audition you sent me on? It was for an all female revival of Company. Santana? Why are you sending me to auditions for plays about lesbians?" Rachel asked, giving her a puzzled look.

"Whoa there!" Santana said, getting up from her chair. "Take a breath, and I'll be right back." Shaking her head and the woman's obliviousness, Santana escaped from Berry and started digging in the hall closet. Brittany could be such a pack rat, that magazine had to be somewhere with the other things stashed away while she was gone.

"There it is!" she said, triumphantly, finding it under a stack of Brit's Powerpuff Girls dvds. Returning to the living room, she plopped down onto the couch and started leafing through the magazine, smirking to herself at the sounds Berry was making as she was ignored.

"What are you looking at," Berry asked, hands on her hips in the middle of the room, her rant hopefully temporarily exhausted.

"A magazine," Santana said, finding what she was looking for. At least she hoped so.

"You haven't heard a word I've said," Berry grumbled, flopping down next to her.

"Blah, blah, lezzy Elphaba, blah," Santana said, smirking at Rachel's gasp. "You've played the straight girl for years," she told her not-quite good friend. "'Bout time you played yourself. Don't need to find someone else to imitate."

"I'm not gay!" Berry protested. "Not that there is anything wrong with you and Brit, but that isn't me."

"If you say so," Santana said, dismissively waving off her objections and putting the magazine between herself and the sputtering actress.

"Santana?"

"Yes?"

"Why is that picture moving?

"You can see that?" Santana turned the magazine around and glared at it. The photo of the editor winked at her. Of course Berry would have enough magic to activate the wizarding pictures. She'd always claimed to have a sixth sense. But that was a puzzle for another time. If ever.

"Yes, unless I'm dreaming. And I don't think I'm dreaming," she said, sounding puzzled. "But I'm fully recovered from jet lag, not that I'm actually susceptible to it with my extensive travel experience. Pinch me!"

"Let's not go there," Santana said, shaking her head at the tempting idea. She had no desire to be guesting in an extra Berry special dream. "You aren't dreaming. The pictures are moving."

"Oh. Is this some new technology I missed while I was on tour? I'm going to have to have all of my publicity shots redone," she grumbled. "Though it might not be a bad idea. Can these new photographs do sound also?"

"Chill, short stuff," Santana said. "It's not new."

"Why haven't I seen it before then?"

"Don't know, don't really care," Santana grumbled, starting to regret the whole thing.

"Santana!" Berry said, pouting.

"If you're gonna whine, I'm going to bed," Santana told her.

"But they're moving!"

"So am I," Santana said, getting up.

"Okay, okay!" Rachel said, miming zipping her lips shut. Crossing her arms, she leaned back and pouted.

Smirking, Santana found the magazine's masthead. Next to each name was a small image madly waving at her. And there it was, the name she was looking for. Poking the image next to the name, she watched it expand, taking up a large portion of the page. Not bad, she thought, if you liked the hot librarian type.

"Berry?"

"Yes?"

"Something you need to tell me about England?"

"No..."

"This chick look familiar?" Santana asked, turning the magazine so the picture faced her.

"She's moving!" Berry said. "Why'd she wink at me?"

"No idea," Santana said. "You must be her type. Or a fan."

"I'm not," Berry sputtered. "I'm not gay!"

"If you say so," Santana said, recalling a similar denial from Q a month before being introduced to her girlfriend, some crazy writer from Connecticut.

"Who is she?" Berry asked.

"Just some reporter. She saw your show in London. Piccadilly?"

"Yes," Berry said. "Did she like it? I don't recall seeing a review with that byline."

Santana shrugged. "She wants to interview you for this." She waved the magazine. "In person."

"Really? When?" Berry asked, excitedly.

"Next month. She's gonna be in town for some reason," Santana said. "I told her to give me a shout when she's here and we'll arrange something."

"What kinds of things does she write?" Berry asked, making a grab for the magazine.

"Does it matter?" Santana asked, holding it out of her reach. This wasn't Europe where they got uptight about Norms learning about magic but a scolding from her abuela for letting loudmouth Berry know about the Wizarding world was not something Santana looked forward to.

"I need to prepare," Berry said, making another grab for the Quibbler.

"I'll see what I can do," Santana said. "Keep your grubby paws off Brit's magazine. She wouldn't like it." A phrase guaranteed to stop even the most manic of Berrys in her tracks.

"I just wanted to look at it," Berry said, pouting, but sitting back down.

* * *

><p>Santana's ears still buzzed, two days later, from the talking to she'd gotten from her abuela. But she'd promised to bring Berry out to Jersey to visit her before her interview with the British witch. If anyone could get the short diva under control, it was her abuela, the Wise Woman of the East Coast.<p> 


	2. Tattoo

**Note:** [11/2/2013] Apparently, it's been almost two years since I posted the first chapter. Oops? I'll try to make it sooner for the next one. See the end for an additional note or two about this chapter.  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 2,390

* * *

><p>The sound of wings beating against her kitchen window drew Hermione's attention away from the Muggle theater books she'd borrowed from the Wizarding Academy of Dramatic Arts that morning. Like most wizarding books about Muggle culture it was half fiction and half misinterpretation. She was tempted to write the author a scathing letter about the book's inaccuracies but suspected it wouldn't go over too well, since it was written by the current Dean of W.A.D.A. and she didn't want to lose access to the rest of their library before finishing her paper.<p>

Opening the window, she watched an owl in the distinctive plumage of International Owl Post tiredly fly in and land next to her sink. Hooting impatiently, the owl held out a leg with a letter carrier attached. Hermione carefully untied the carrier, and removed its contents, a rolled up envelope.

"Do you need a reply?" she asked. The owl double hooted, indicating no.

Nodding, Hermione looked around for a bowl. Leaving the window open so the owl could leave when it was done, she gave the owl water in the bowl, and a small portion of the rabbit she'd been planning to cook for dinner.

Taking the envelope into her small study, she unrolled it and looked at it sitting on her desk. It was obviously American, she recognized the style from previous correspondence. But the name on the outside was unfamiliar.

Tapping it with her wand, she checked for any obvious traps attached to it. Satisfied it was safe, she carefully opened the envelope. It contained two letters. She quickly glanced them over. One was a handwritten note on expensive paper in an elegant, flowing script. The other was on letterhead for a Muggle law firm that matched the writing on the outside of the envelope. She read that one first.

The Muggle note was a request for writing samples. Looking at the signature at the bottom, she realized excitedly who it was from, Rachel Berry's manager. Frowning, she wondered how they'd known to send it to her by Owl Post. The other letter didn't really clear things up. It was merely a short, pleasant acknowledgment from the actress, agreeing to the interview request at an unspecified time.

Sitting down at her desk, she wondered what kind of writing sample would be appropriate to introduce her writing to a muggle actress. Preferably an interview. Hermione frowned and thought. She hadn't done that many and even fewer that would be Muggle appropriate.

* * *

><p>Rachel sat on the small couch, nervously rubbing her hands together as she waited for Santana to return. She wasn't sure why she needed to speak with Santana's grandmother but hadn't wanted to appear rude when Santana had relayed her request. She didn't have much experience with older family members, her fathers' parents, the ones who'd accepted their relationship, having died before she was in high school. Shelby, during any of their bi-annual cease fires had never mentioned her own parents.<p>

She remembered Santana having some kind of problem with one grandmother back in high school but apparently that wasn't this one.

"Chill out," Santana said, sitting down next to her. "She'll be down in a minute. She's got the Lopez charm but she doesn't bite."

"That's supposed to calm me down?" Rachel asked.

Santana winked at her, before nodding at the ancient looking woman entering the room. Standing up, Santana carefully helped her grandmother to the most comfortable looking chair in the room.

"Come here, child," she said, in a firm voice in an unidentifiable accent. "Let me see you."

"Yes, ma'am," Rachel said, nervously getting up to stand in front of her.

"Very polite," the old woman said to Santana. "Why can't you be like your friends," she said. "Such polite young women."

"Abuela!" Santana said, winking at Rachel. "Don't diss me in front of my friend."

"Bah, incorrigible," the old woman said, turning her attention back to Rachel. "You have a big heart, little songbird," she said. "You too will find someone to share it with." She held up her hand, to stop Rachel from speaking. "If this one can be happy with her dancer, so too can you find someone to sing to." She waved a hand at Santana, who was grumbling under her breath. "But that is not why you are here today."

"Finally!" Santana said, her voice heavy with exasperation. "Don't listen to her rattle on about true love and all that romance crap," Santana said to Rachel. "Her and her bingo buddies think they know everything."

"Go make me some of my special tea, crabby little girl," the old woman said to Santana.

"What are you gonna do? Hex me?" Santana said, not moving. "I'm all immune to your hocus-pocus."

"No respect!" Santana's grandmother grumbled, shaking her head. "Like her mother."

"Don't be bringing Mama into this," Santana said, glaring at her. "That was your choice, old woman."

"Hah! She couldn't feel the spirits like you can," she said. "You will make a better Wise Woman."

"And I've told you. I don't want it!" Santana said, raising her voice. "Now, do your thing!" Turning, she stomped out of the room, leaving Rachel alone with her grandmother.

"One must get their amusement wherever possible, at my age," she said to Rachel with a chuckle. "My Santana is very spirited."

"Yes," Rachel said. "But why am I here?"

"You have a sixth sense, yes?" the old woman asked. "Your mother comes from a long line of fortune tellers. Gypsies."

"My mother," Rachel paused to gather her thoughts. "My mother never talks about her family."

"No matter," she said. "You shine with the magic of your heritage." Reaching to the side, she pulled out a small, slim book and handed it to Rachel. "Tell me what you see."

Cautiously taking the book, gasping at the slight tingle that ran up her arms, Rachel opened it. Her vision blurred for a moment before suddenly becoming clear. "The picture moves," she said in surprise, looking at a small image on the cover page. "Just like that magazine."

"You have no training," the old woman said, "but you are sensitive to the magic. Unfortunate."

"Magic?" Rachel asked. "Like real magic? Why unfortunate?"

"There are many kinds of magic," she said. "Some require training, others come with wisdom and age. Yours is only good for simple fortune telling and curses."

"Why are you telling me this?" Rachel asked. "I would never curse someone."

"Old woman," Santana grumbled, setting a steaming glass in front of her grandmother, "I could have told her that myself." She turned to Rachel. "It's simple. There are rules about who knows about magic and who can tell who."

"Whom," Rachel corrected automatically.

"Whatever," Santana said, shaking her head. "A lot of dumb rules. But mostly it's like fight club."

"Fight Club? Wasn't that a movie?" Rachel said.

"Yes. And the famous phrase?"

"No idea," Rachel said.

"And you're an actress?" Santana said.

"Yes."

Santana shook her head, plopping down on the couch next to Rachel. "The rule about 'fight club' is you don't talk about it. All these people getting their magic on are the same way. They don't talk to outsiders about their magic. Or to other magic types. And somehow, in the last year, one of these people has noticed you."

"Am I in trouble?" Rachel asked. She was skeptical about the whole idea of magic. But if Santana took the whole thing seriously there must be some truth to it.

"From that chica? Nah. She's a do-gooder according to my sources. But there are people watching her that you need to be careful around, if you ever meet her."

"Okay. But I don't do magic," Rachel said. "And I'm not a member of any magic user club."

"No, you're not," Santana said, nodding her head. "And that's the problem."

"Why?"

"Because some of them work really hard at making norms forget about their magic," Santana said. "They're really hardcore about it. They think it's okay to mess with your head to make you forget. And they're not subtle about it either."

Rachel shivered. The thought that someone would play with her mind just to make her forget about real magic was scary. "What do I need to do?"

"That's why we're here," Santana said. "You need a tat."

"I can't have a tattoo, Santana!" Rachel said, excitedly. She wasn't really superstitious, but everyone who trod the boards knew certain things were bad luck. And no one with a tattoo had ever won a Tony, which would mean no EGOT.

"That's not true," Santana said.

"Child, you're not helping," Santana's grandmother said. "It's nothing to worry about," she said to Rachel. "No one will see it."

"But I'll know it's there," Rachel said. "I can't!" Standing up she looked at them in horror. Never get a Tony or have people messing with her memory? Neither choice was acceptable.

"Berry, sit back down and listen," Santana said, getting between her and the door before she could escape. "You know what I found out about your little superstition?"

"What," Rachel said, sitting down again and looking at her manager hopefully. Santana was good at fixing things.

"It's not true," Santana said. "Barbra has a tattoo and she has a Tony."

"She does?" Rachel said skeptically. "It's not in her autobiography. If she had one she'd mention it there."

"Really? What if it was something secret that no one is supposed to know about?" Santana said.

"Then how do you know about it?" Rachel said.

"Um," Santana looked at her grandmother for help. "I can't tell you," she said. "Client confidentiality."

"So you're lying," Rachel said. "Barbra isn't your client."

"No…" Santana admitted. "But I have reliable sources and you still need this tattoo."

"Why?"

"It'll protect you?" Santana said.

"You don't seem too sure about that," Rachel said. "What does this tattoo, that's going to ruin my Broadway career, do?" she asked Santana's grandmother.

"Show her yours, child," Santana's grandmother said.

"Mine?" Santana grumbled, glaring at her. "Why?"

"Because I told you to," she said.

"Fine!" Leaning forward, Santana unbuttoned her blouse and pulled down the top of her bra, baring her left breast. "See it?" she said, pointing to a spot to the left of her nipple.

"No?" Rachel said, taking a quick look, before averting her eyes.

"Berry! Look closer, it won't bite," Santana said. "It's right here."

"It's glowing," Rachel said, getting closer and squinting at the unrecognizable symbol. It wasn't a large tattoo. "Is it supposed to glow?" she asked, blushing.

"It's magic," Santana said. "If you don't have any magic it's completely invisible. Happy?" she said, glaring at her grandmother and straightening her clothes.

"The tattoo is a marker," Santana's grandmother told Rachel. "All of my coven apprentices have it."

"You don't have any apprentices, old woman," Santana said.

"I now have three," she told them. "You, your dancer, and your songbird."

"Britt isn't one of your apprentices," Santana said.

"She wears my apprentice tattoo, like you do," Santana's grandmother said.

"What does it do, this marker?" Rachel asked. "It's not just a tattoo that glows?"

"It's like a magical ID that tells other magic users not to mess with you, or grandma and her old crones will stomp all over them," Santana said. "It doesn't actually make you her apprentice."

"You take the mystery out of things," Santana's grandmother said, with a huff. "It's more than that. It will protect you from some curses, such as this one you are afraid of. Your Barbra has a similar one, from her mother's family."

"Oh," Rachel said, looking at Santana for confirmation. "Do I have to get it in the same place? That must have hurt," she said, shivering.

"Like a bitch," Santana said. "Took weeks for the swelling to go down. Looked like I had a boob job."

"So, you didn't?" Rachel asked.

"Didn't need one," Santana said, shaking her head and smirking. "This kind of hotness needs no artificial sweetener."

"No, songbird, that is not normally where one puts this mark," Santana's grandmother said. "But this one must be different. She wouldn't listen. Where you put it is a decision you must make, but some places will hurt more than others."

"Let's put it in one of those less painful places," Rachel said, nodding.

* * *

><p>Rachel looked at the small tattoo, slightly to the left below her belly button. It had been an interesting and slightly painful experience. Santana's grandmother had painted the tattoo on using several different kinds of something that looked like ink. She'd followed that by rubbing some kind of smelly lotion into the area. And then some kind of rough, sandlike powder that seemed to embed itself into the design.<p>

The final step had been dripping hot wax onto the area and saying words in an unfamiliar language. That last part had resulted in a burning pain, that had felt like she was being branded. Rubbing on more of the smelly lotion had revealed the tattoo glowing in her skin.

"So, this doesn't make me any more magical than I was before?" she asked, curious.

"No, child. No more than a library card makes you any smarter," she said.

Santana started to giggle, loudly. And then laugh.

"What's so funny?" Rachel asked, puzzled at the outburst.

"Quinn… library card…" Santana said, unable to stop laughing about something she refused to share.

"Santana!" Rachel said.

"Not important," Santana said, after calming down. "I'll give you a twenty if you say 'library card' to Fabray the next time you see her with her girlfriend."

"Why?" Rachel asked. She'd heard about Quinn's girlfriend, of course, but not how they'd met. Quinn had promised to tell her the whole story the next time they got together for coffee, but that hadn't happened yet.

Santana shook her head. "If I explain, you won't do it."

"If you don't explain, I won't do it," Rachel said firmly.

"Forget I suggested it," Santana said. "Are we done?"

"Yes," said Santana's grandmother. "I wish to speak with your mother, songbird," she added. "This affects her also."

"Yes, ma'am," Rachel said, gulping. She hadn't even told Shelby that she was back in town yet. She wasn't going to be happy with the summons from Santana's grandmother.

* * *

><p><strong>End Note:<strong> No, Rachel's idol, Barbra Streisand, doesn't have an invisible magical tattoo. As far as I known anyway. And Rachel's mother ( Shelby ) being a gypsy? Totally AU.


End file.
